


Smashed

by naughtyspirit



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Shenanigans, Drunkenness, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Time, First Time Topping, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-25
Updated: 2013-07-29
Packaged: 2017-12-21 06:50:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/897160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naughtyspirit/pseuds/naughtyspirit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is very very drunk. Sherlock is not. John's mouth, fists and brain run away with him.</p><p>Well, they're very pretty, both of them. And the joy of drunkenness leads to several confessions.</p><p>~</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John gets smashed

John Watson is fuck drunk tonight.

It isn't entirely his fault, although he knows that the only way out was to stop before he started. But John is built to be amongst friends and when Mike asked if he fancied a drink with the old boys, he didn't hesitate. That is to say, John checked that Sherlock was occupied boiling up some kind of insides before he grabbed wallet and phone and headed out.

The evening itself seemed to go quite well, as far as John can remember. It started in a pub in Camden, worked through Bethnel Green and ended up at the Duke of Wellington. John is quite sure he got thrown out of there because his jaw aches where he forgot to duck. He thinks he said goodbye to Mike at that point and there wasn't a cab willing to take him home when he couldn't stand up straight. So he has walked, wishing he'd worn different shoes as he staggers up to 221b and attempts to find his keys.

The door seems to have gone wonky, in John's opinion. The key hole is not where it should be and he can't seem to locate the handle even if he could coordinate the two things. He sets one hand on the board of the door itself in the time honoured tradition and attempts to focus all his efforts into putting the one thing into the other. The very thought makes John giggle loudly and shake his head, because it seems that he is emotionally thirteen when alcohol has done its job. He drops his head against the door as he makes a feeble effort to get control of himself and fails miserably.

It is fair to say he's a little shocked when the door swings open. It's even more fair to say he hasn't got the faintest sense of balance and that John topples inward, his entire body weight set to drop to the floor. It would absolutely serve him right if John had to spend the night slumped in his own hallway and he would definitely deserve the telling off he'd receive from Mrs Hudson in the morning. He would count it as sufficient penance for an exciting evening, but tonight John has a guardian angel.

"Why the hell are you in this state?"

A rather frustrated and demanding angel, but still, Sherlock's right there to catch John as he topples inward and bears his weight with more ease than expected. John lands with his nose smushed up against Sherlock's shoulder and he's supported by a surprisingly strong arm beneath his armpit. John moves as best he can, freeing up his nose to breathe and nuzzling in against Sherlock's shirt.

"I've had a bit to drink."

Sherlock sniffs and then moves quickly, maneuvering John round so that his arm's over Sherlock's shoulders and he can settle his own hand on John's waist.

"Half the contents of the bar, by the smell of you." He sighs. "Well, you can't sleep here. Let's get you upstairs."

John nods at that, but his feet don't seem to be working all that well and although Sherlock steps determinedly up each step, John's feet slip and slide across each riser. He rests his head against Sherlock's shoulders and happily allows the man to get them both up to the flat. He pats a hand against Sherlock's chest as they move.

"You're a good man," he says. "Good friend."

"Yes, yes, I'm extraordinary," says Sherlock and brings John through the door and sets him on the sofa. He locks the door behind him and walks sharply back to the sofa where John hasn't moved since he set him down. John glances up and catches Sherlock staring down at him, hands on his hips as he clearly works out what he's going to do about his sozzled flatmate. The frown is enough to set John off again and he laughs until Sherlock asks what he's laughing about.

"Don't know," says John and lifts his hand to wave a finger at Sherlock. "You should've come out."

"Yes, I can see how that worked out," says Sherlock. "You don't usually get this drunk-"

"I'm not drunk."

"So I can only assume it's a special occasion." Sherlock tilts his head and then leans in, sniffing at John's collar.

"Aye, aye, stop that kind of behaviour. You don't know where I've been."

"Camden," says Sherlock, drawing back slightly to look down at him. "And the Kings Arms in Bethnel Green."

"How did you-"

"Stamp on your hand," says Sherlock. "Particular to nightclubs in Camden and you've got a receipt sticking out of your pocket from the Kings Arms." He keeps close to John and smiles as he works this through. "And then the Duke of Wellington where you drank Jäger Bombs and something else."

"Beer," says John, but Sherlock picks up his right hand and turns it over where the knuckles are bruised. "Oh and I punched someone."

"So you did," says Sherlock and runs a thumb under the knuckle. "Twice. Not Mike?"

John shakes his head and slumps further down the sofa. "Not Mike," he agrees. "Just some knobhead who should've known better."

Sherlock squats down and bounces lightly on his heels as he touches the line of John's now swelling jaw. "Someone taller than you," he says. "And you knocked him out."

John nods. "He was a twat," he says and grins. "You should've seen him go down."

"I think I would have liked to," says Sherlock and runs his teeth against his bottom lip. "Why did you hit him?"

"He was a-"

"Yes, yes, I got that. I mean what did he say that made you hit him?"

John wrinkles his nose and makes the effort to sit forward. He gestures toward Sherlock with the tips of his fingers. "He called you a freak."

Sherlock blinks. "Anderson? You hit Anderson?"

"No, I punched his lights out," giggles John and rests a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "He said, 'you forget your freak,' and I was really, really sick of him. So," he swings his arm to demonstrate the punch. Sherlock catches him before he can topple forward again and sets John back against the sofa. "Thank you. You would've loved to see him flat out on the floor."

"I'm sure I would," says Sherlock and smiles. "Defending my honour, John. I'm flattered."

"You should be, you bastard. Back of my hand's killing me." John sniffs lightly and then looks round. "I'll sleep here."

"No, it'll make your shoulder play up," says Sherlock and looks round. John watches through bleary vision, sure that this soft focus is playing tricks on him. Sherlock looks particularly like a marble statue this evening, all pale throat and sharp cheekbones above the dark shirt. John has seen him wear lighter colours occasionally, but when he summons up his Sherlock image, it's always in something dark to contract better against his skin.

His head is fuzzy, but John's quite sure that punching Anderson is absolutely the right thing to have done. How dare that idiot say anything about Sherlock at all? He mouths off all the time, but usually when Sherlock is there to defend himself. He was a bloody fool to have said something when John was there and he had enough about himself to swing hard and catch Anderson's cheekbone. Anderson's own punch was weak but his wrist watch caught John on the jaw and only inspired John to end it quickly. The blow was fast and fierce and took the last of John's sobriety to complete.

It was enough and John grins lazily at the knowledge. He might be pissed and sitting down on the sofa, but Anderson's face was pressed against the dirty floor of the Duke's. Best place for him, he decides and reaches out to touch Sherlock's cheek. The man looks up, blinking at the contact and John winks at him.

"Guess it makes me your hero," he says and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"You're positively Byronic," says Sherlock and reaches for his arms to drag John back to his feet. "You can sleep in my bed. I'm not getting you up those stairs."

"Your room smells funny," says John. "You've been doing something weird in there."

He leans against Sherlock's shoulder and allows him to drag John through to his flatmate's bedroom. It smells ever so slightly of formaldehyde and possibly sandalwood, but the sheets are clean when Sherlock hauls them back. He sets John down on the edge and kneels down in front of him to unfasten his shoes. "What's the special occasion?" he asks as he draws each shoe off and away. "You didn't say."

"It's my birthday," says John and smiles as he leans back on unsteady arms. " _Was_ my birthday."

"It's not your birthday until Tuesday," says Sherlock and looks up at John as the man shakes his head. "Isn't it?"

"Last week," says John. "Mrs Hudson made a cake, remember?"

"I remember the cake," says Sherlock and huffs before he leans up and with some difficulty draws John's jacket off. He drops it on the chair and turns back to find John attempting to pull his shirt off over his head. "Sorry," he says absently and works the shirt free as well, leaving John to drop back against the sheets. "Well, happy birthday for then, John."

John waves him off and closes his eyes and lifts a leg. "Can't sleep in socks."

Sherlock rolls his eyes but he bends back and draws both off, depositing them with jacket and shirt before he turns back to John's jeans. He unfastens the belt buckle and reaches for the buttons, only for John to lay a hand over his own. "You can sleep in them if you like, but I thought you'd be comfier with them off."

"Fine," says John and settles back against the sheets, hands above his head and a grin across his face. "Sherlock Holmes is taking my pants off. Everything's fine."

"Your jeans, not your pants," says Sherlock and tugs a little harder than necessary to strip John down to his underwear. He frowns as he looks at it and glances back to John's face. "Where on earth did you get those?"

"Hmm?"

"Your pants, John. I thought you always wore black."

"Molly bought them," says John and grins as he slides his hands down and hooks his thumbs in the white waistband. "I think she actually bought them for you, but she couldn't bring herself to hand them over. So I got them with some socks last week." He tugs slightly at the sides. "I don't think they'd fit you."

He catches Sherlock staring down at his pants and feels entirely at ease, despite where he is. John isn't a fool by a very long way. He hasn't spent the past few years living with Sherlock without noticing that occasionally Sherlock looks at him very closely indeed. John's certainly looked back. He might spend a considerable amount of time denying that they're a couple, (because they're not a couple) but he's not unaware of Sherlock's appeal and it strikes him right now that he's next to naked and in Sherlock's bed.

Drunk as hell and in Sherlock's bed, but John's feeling thoroughly relaxed and if the room's spinning, well at least he is lying down. "Sherlock," he says as evenly as he can manage. "Do you want to try my pants on?"

"Why on earth would I want to do that?" says Sherlock, but he doesn't move and John tugs the waistband of his pants a bit lower.

"Well, they were supposed to be for you."

"John," says Sherlock carefully. "You're very drunk. You don't know what you're doing."

"Yeah I do and I don't need 'em," says John and pulls harder still, easing them over his hip bones before Sherlock covers John's hands with his own.

"For the love of all you hold dear, John. Keep your pants on."

John grins at him and leans up, the room spinning slightly as he focuses on the eyes that seem to change colour depending on the light. Tonight he can't quite pick out the colour because Sherlock's pupils are dark and he's breathing a little harder than he should. Normally he behaves himself quite correctly, but the rules have apparently been put off to one side. He licks over his bottom lip as he squeezes at Sherlock's fingers and shifts his hips up.

"Does it bother you?" he asks and leans in close enough to press his mouth against Sherlock's ear. "It's just skin."

"Do shut up," says Sherlock. "You need to go to bed."

"I'm in bed," says John and then grins. "You're supposed to kiss the birthday boy, you know?"

"It's not your birthday," says Sherlock but he doesn't quite move. "You really are very drunk, John. And in the morning-"

"See, that's the thing about getting pissed," says John. "You can write off anything the next day. Cause you're drunk."

"I'm not drunk," says Sherlock. "I'll remember. I always remember."

"Good," says John and leans up as far as he can, pressing his mouth against Sherlock's with a mighty smack. It's loud in the quiet room and when he drops back against the bed again, he licks over his bottom lip. "Always wanted to do that. You've got a mouth made for snogging, you know that?"

Sherlock blinks at him, but says nothing and John winks at him before he yawns and stretches out on the bed. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, John," says Sherlock and John smiles as he dozes, the blankets drawn up over his body and the door closed behind him. For once, he's going to have very sweet dreams when he sleeps, even if the room itself is still threatening to turn on its side. Tomorrow is a problem for future John and if he presses his nose in against the pillow to smell where Sherlock usually sleeps, well so what. John's a damned hero, he's sure of it and he drifts with a smile on his face.

And in the front room, Sherlock is currently staring at the Brandy, as though it may answer some questions of his own.


	2. John gets sober

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the morning after and while John's head is still fuzzy from the night before, Sherlock remembers everything perfectly.
> 
> Especially the snogging.
> 
> ~

John has nursed his way through more than a dozen hangovers in the past ten years. The one after his thirtieth birthday was the worst but today ranks right up there with the best of them. His head seems to be filled with liquid cement and he feels as though he's lying under a lead weight. Each of his limbs feels pinned down and he isn't at all sure that he can move even a little bit without it upsetting the delicate balance keeping his skull attached.

He can remember bits and pieces of the night before, a knack picked up from the old days when he woke up in strange beds with strange people next to him. This bed only contains him and for that John is entirely grateful. At least he doesn't have to come up with difficult conversation this morning and he gathers that his pants are still on. It takes a great effort to stretch out and he swears that every last tendon is strained when he hits the headboard with the back of his hand.

It registers after a few seconds. He is hungover after all. He might be alone but this is definitely not his bed and a tricky glance round the room confirms John's suspicions. "Oh fuck," he groans and closes his eyes again, unsure if he should be relishing the comfort of Sherlock's pillows.

"Good morning, John."

John blinks and tries to focus, aware that while he's not sleeping alone, he's not alone in the room. It takes him a moment to raise an elbow high enough to lean on and sure enough, Sherlock's sitting in the chair in the corner of the room, legs crossed and his elbows resting on the arms. His fingertips are steepled together and his gaze is very much fixed on John in his bed. He could have been sitting there for years, but John's memory is unhelpfully filling in slowly and he remembers falling in the door last night. He's also certain that this may be about to be the ultimate in awkward conversations conducted by a man who can make 'how are you' incredibly uncomfortable.

"Morning, Sherlock. Thanks for last night," says John. His tongue feels ridiculously thick and he scrubs his hand up through his hair where it's hot and sticky. "I was in a right state."

"You were drunk," says Sherlock and nods to the side table. "I've made you tea."

"You?" asks John and turns his head. On the side table there's a still vaguely warm cup of tea and a couple of slices of toast. "Are you taking care of me?"

"That's what friends do," says Sherlock and gestures. "Why don't you sit up? You'll need to hydrate."

"Friends," says John and would nod if he wasn't certain things would break. The squeaky little giggle escapes in spite of the ache that goes with him. "Sherlock Holmes is helping nurse my hangover."

"I could leave if you'd prefer but I do want my bed back."

"Now?" asks John and struggles, sitting up slowly and with some concentrated effort. "Okay, that hurt."

"Do you want me to leave?"

"No, no. Please stay and enjoy watching me die slowly." John rubs his fingertips over his eyes and glances down at his bare chest, aware that he's close to naked and that on top of everything else that's threatening to destroy John's sanity, morning wood is hitting the list hard. In his own bed it would be buried beneath the duvet, but Sherlock favours layers of sheets instead and not only is it standing out now but has clearly been tenting the bedding for some time.

John takes the time honoured route of dragging a pillow over and dumping it on his crotch. He can't do anything about it, (and mostly, he thinks he actually needs to pee) so he reaches with a shaky hand for the tea Sherlock made and takes a big drink. He wrinkles his nose.

"How long ago did you make this?"

"An hour," says Sherlock. "Given the time you got in, I thought you'd be awake."

John sips again. "There's sugar in this."

"It's for shock," says Sherlock and John gingerly shakes his head.

"I'm not in shock."

"You kissed me last night."

John sputters mid drink and stares up at Sherlock, tea spilling down over his chest and dribbling onto his stomach. His mouth, despite drinking, feels dry and the events of the evening before come back into focus sharply. He can remember the drinking. He can remember the fighting and he can remember feeling smug that he'd knocked Anderson on his arse. He can sort of remember staggering home and inside and there's the warm memory of Sherlock's kindness.

And then there's the surprisingly clear image of being stripped and put into bed. His belly tenses and his balls draw up tight as he recalls the deft touch of his flatmate. Sherlock was careful when he took John's clothes off and John can remember enjoying that perhaps more than he should. The image in his still dizzy brain, of offering to let Sherlock try his pants on is a little sharper than it should be. A lot sharper than John thinks it should be and he clears his throat as his erection throbs cheerfully, apparently unaffected by the hangover that's currently crippling John. And there's also that loud smacking sound in his head as he remembers kissing Sherlock and grinning.

He looks over at Sherlock, who nods. "Drink the tea. Good for shock."

John drinks and then sets it down with a lot more care than he thinks he should be expected to manage. "I was pissed last night," he says and Sherlock nods.

"Yes, I'm aware of that. You haven't tried to take your pants off in my bed before. Nor have you kissed me."

"I kiss a lot of people when I'm drunk," protests John. "I'm affectionate."

"You're very affectionate all the time," says Sherlock and leans forward in his chair as he watches John. "But this is the first time you've discussed my mouth."

"Your mouth," says John and tries to get some semblance of his dignity back by sitting up straighter. It doesn't work and he slumps back against the headboard. "Look, I'm pretty sure I kissed _Mike_ last night. I wouldn't read anything into it."

"A mouth built for snogging," says Sherlock and John lifts a hand.

"Ah, no, I'm pretty sure I didn't say that about Mike."

"About me," says Sherlock and licks over his bottom lip. "You said I had a mouth built for snogging and offered to take your pants off for me." He pauses. "Technically they're my pants, but Molly chose to give them to you instead."

John clears his throat and attempts to cross his legs so he can do something about the way his cock is reacting to Sherlock's matter of fact commentary. "Look, Sherlock, I was _really_ pissed," he says and tries a lazy grin. "You say all sorts of mad stuff when you're drunk."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "You mean you don't think I have a mouth built for snogging?"

"I don't think of you like that at all," says John and gestures. "I was-"

"Drunk, yes, you've said," says Sherlock and gestures to the toast. "Please eat that. You need to fill your belly."

John picks up the toast and eats slowly, forcing himself to chew as he looks back at Sherlock and tries to calculate his chances of leaving the room with any of his dignity close to intact. The odds don't look good and he can feel the colour rising in his cheeks as his brain helpfully replays the kiss from the night before. The memory of Sherlock's mouth is a little more pleasant than he suspected it might be and he wants very much to pretend it was just due to being drunk. He'd like to believe it, but John isn't very good at lying to himself, especially not when he's trying to concentrate on breathing in and out without being sick.

Worse still, he can recall with liquid heat that Sherlock's fingers were on the insides of his pants last night. Admittedly they were trying desperately to keep John's pants on, but still, he felt Sherlock's hands on his hipbones and his palms against John's skin. John's belly flips over and his cock throbs helpfully, as if to remind him that John's body is just fine with Sherlock's touch and is waiting for his brain to catch up.

He looks back at Sherlock to find the man still watching him steadily, eyes on John's mouth as he eats and drinks and does his best to return to human again. A suspicion dawns on him and John gestures with his crust.

"Have you been sitting there all night?"

"I made you tea and toast."

"Have you?"

Sherlock shrugs. "You were using my bed."

"Right," says John and swallows the last of his toast. "Can you pass me my clothes and I'll get out of your room."

"I've put them in the laundry. They reeked of drink and possibly something made of horse. Please don't eat any more kebabs without letting me take samples first," says Sherlock and walks over to pick up his dressing gown. He brings it to John and settles it round his shoulders. "I'll help you to the shower and get you something else to drink for afterwards."

"You can skip the tea," says John and struggles to get upright. The pillow drops away and he glances down at where the head of his cock is poking cheekily out of the top of his waistband. He groans and struggles to adjust himself. "It's early, all right? Nothing to see here."

"Oh do grow up, John. I've seen your penis before," says Sherlock and walks him to the door. "I need you to sober up."

"I'm working on it," says John and looks up with some effort. "When?"

"As soon as possible," says Sherlock.

"No, when've you seen my dick?" asks John. "You don't use public urinals and we don't share the bathroom, so when?"

"Oh, _around_ ," says Sherlock and gets John in the bathroom, stripping the gown from his back and reaching for John's pants when his fingers struggle to get a grip. John yelps and grimaces at the noise. "You weren't shy last night."

"Sherlock," says John as Sherlock draws his last bit of clothing away. "I smacked a bloke for you last night. I may have skipped along the street. It doesn't count."

"So you said," says Sherlock and turns the shower head on. He tests the water and then urges John under the spray. He grabs shampoo and starts to pour it into his own hand before John snatches it away and tugs the door closed. Sherlock rolls his eyes and leans back against the wall as John slowly washes his skin. "So you agree that anything you say or do while under the influence of alcohol shouldn't affect your relationships the next day?"

"That's the idea of it, yeah," says John and sniffs the shampoo. "This is pretty nice, Sherlock. Where'd you get it from?"

"I'll get you some," says Sherlock. "So a kiss from a drunk doesn't count?"

"Nope," says John and pokes his head out of the shower. "Can I use the soap?"

"Please do," says Sherlock and crosses his ankles as he lolls against the wall. "What about sex?"

"In exchange for soap?"

"Idiot," says Sherlock and sighs as he settles back. "Does drunk sex count?"

John rinses off and steps out, feet skidding on the floor as he wraps a towel round his middle. He looks at Sherlock but the man seems to be busy thinking about something and John tries to work through what he said. "Sherlock," he says carefully. "Have you had drunk sex?"

"No," says Sherlock and looks back at John. "Does it count?"

"As what?"

"As something of note when you sober up."

John shrugs his shoulders and finds that it's ever so slightly easier. His skin feels pretty good and the toast and tea have at least eased the way some. His head's still throbbing but at least he's getting some grip on himself and he looks at his flatmate carefully.

"Is this for a case?"

"No," says Sherlock and looks back at John carefully. "I looked after you last night."

"You did," says John. "Don't think I'm ungrateful-"

"Excellent."

"-but where's this going?"

Sherlock smiles at him, the grin he shares with the man when he's genuinely amused at something and he licks over his bottom lip. "And you'd agree that you don't like to owe a favour?"

"Sherlock," says John. "Are you planning to get pissed and have sex?"

"Possibly," says Sherlock and pats John firmly on the shoulder. "Don't make other plans tonight. I'll need your help."

"To do what?" asks John and Sherlock grins at him.

"An experiment, John," says Sherlock and winks. "I shall start drinking at eight. You should have completely sobered up by then and you can assist me."

"You're getting drunk?" asks John and reaches absently for the dressing gown. "You want me to take care of you?"

"Obviously," says Sherlock. "I shall need someone to ensure I don't have to disturb Mrs Hudson as I don't plan on leaving the flat. You'll have to ensure I get to bed safely and that you offer me as much care as I've afforded you."

He walks out of the bathroom, leaving John slouching against the wall, entirely confused. "You said sex!"

"I said look after me," says Sherlock and reaches back to hand over a glass of water. "Do keep up, John. Whatever happens, you said it doesn't count."

And with that, he leaves John with a glass in his hand and a towel slipping from his waist. He drinks and stares out after his flatmate, unsure what to do next or even if he can move to avoid it.

One thing's for certain, John's never going to be sober enough to handle Sherlock when he isn't. But John is a soldier at heart and isn't about to be out-dared by his idiot/genius colleague.

The game is definitely on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the kind comments and kudos. I am thoroughly enjoying writing this and am glad you're with me!


	3. Sherlock has a drink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John recovers from his hangover only to deal with Sherlock's plan to get drunk. And all the time there is a nagging feeling that last night's kiss should have been more.
> 
> Well of course it should!
> 
> ~

John's head finally feels as though it's his own again somewhere round three in the afternoon. He doesn't feel entirely delicate and he's managed to eat something as well, enough to be sure that he's recovered from the previous night. He's even taken a few phone calls and sent the odd text. Mike got a phone call to let him know John got home safely and that Sherlock looked after him. Lestrade got a text in response to a query about Anderson's jaw line. John called Anderson a tit and offered to explain in person if Lestrade needed any further context. Lestrade texted back a 'f _ine, no worries_ ' and that was done.

If that had been the biggest challenge of John's day, he would be feeling awesome, given that he'd also conquered his hangover. However, the kitchen looks like a very scary place with the pile of groceries that have been dumped out on the table. Sherlock has been shopping and John is unnerved. There's more alcohol than tea in the place and John hasn't even heard of some of the brands sitting in the bags. He catches Sherlock eating some time in the afternoon and while the sight isn't new, the man appears to be eating with purpose, no doubt to line his stomach.

John hoped his memory of Sherlock's declaration that tonight is John's turn to look after him was just the last of the alcohol talking. Unfortunately, John's sobriety has already kicked in and it seems that Sherlock is planning to and push ahead, getting himself good and drunk this evening. John did make a casual inquiry about Sherlock doing research on the internet instead, but Sherlock grew huffy and pointed out that the internet couldn't tell him how it affected him personally.

So John is resigned, aware that tonight his job will be to take care of Sherlock while the man drinks himself into a stupor. Considering some of the things Sherlock does when he's sober, John really has no idea where the level will be raised to after a few drinks and he's very tempted to stagger out and get ahold of childproof locks and bumpers for the sharp edges round the flat.

Sherlock's kindly given him a nine p.m. deadline and John can't help clock watching as the hour draws close, unable to stop wondering about the other things Sherlock talked about this morning. Sex was on the menu first thing this morning, John's own erection be damned. Sherlock was talking about drunk sex and John isn't at all sure whether Sherlock's going to order himself a prostitute to test out the theory. He makes a note to confiscate Sherlock's phone at some point before he can do any more damage than he's already done. On reflection, it might be best to hide both their phones until morning.

With less than ten minutes to go before kick off, John heads to the bathroom and does his best to ensure it's prepped and ready to go. The towels are clean, the shower's ready and open. The rug is pushed out of the way and there's nothing on the floor to trip either of them up, no matter who staggers in here. Part of him can't believe that he's doing this and he catches sight of his reflection in the edge of the mirror.

He doesn't look as bad as he expected to. He thought he'd have bigger bags beneath his eyes and that the bruise flowering along his jaw would be more purple. But the bruise looks something like a badge of honour, his defence of his friend and John smiles, touching there before his fingers brush his lips and he blinks. Last night he leaned up, wearing nothing more than the wrong pants and John kissed Sherlock hard. He licks over his bottom lip slowly, trying to recall more than the surprised expression in Sherlock's eyes. He can't remember the texture of the kiss itself, more of a mashing of lips together than the sort of taste John likes. But he did definitely kiss him under the influence and John isn't at all sure that tonight's a good idea.

With Sherlock involved, anything really could happen.

"John!"

He turns from the mirror and walks sharply through to the kitchen, quite sure that the best way to handle this is to push through. Sherlock is currently lining up the bottles, apparently taking this seriously and John leans forward and removes the green one.

"No," he says firmly and puts it behind the cupboard door. "No absinthe."

"Why on earth not?" asks Sherlock. "It's alcohol and research suggests-"

"Experience suggests a couple of these and you'll be running round the flat yelling you're a pretty butterfly," says John. "If we're doing this, I get the veto on some of these."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him and nods after a moment's consideration. "Fine. What else should I avoid?"

"All of it," says John and sighs before he nods toward the gin. "That can go. No tears tonight. Oh and the wine."

"It's a Riesling, it's apparently wonderful with seafood," says Sherlock and John nods.

"Yeah, and if we were sitting down to a meal for two, I'd be with you, but you plan on getting hammered so let's save it." He pauses and looks the table over. "You know, you'd be best sticking to beer."

"I don't like beer," says Sherlock and when John raises an eyebrow he huffs. "Fine, what did you drink last night?"

"Half of east London," murmurs John. "Kronenbourg and Jäger bombs, as far as I remember."

"That's it?" asks Sherlock and shakes his head. "Really, John, your tolerance is far lower than I expected."

"Yeah, I didn't just have one," says John and reaches in the fridge for the case in there. "Could've been a couple of shots as well, but I'm not sure. Let's see how you get on with these first." He pauses and looks back at Sherlock. "Just how drunk are you trying to get?"

"Hammered," says Sherlock and grins at John's expression. "John, really. You were very happy last night. You can't begrudge me this."

"It's not about begrudging," says John. "And it wasn't about the drinking. I was out with a few mates having a good time."

"Well I'm here with you," says Sherlock. "We can have a good time."

John raises his eyebrows and clears his throat. "I'm supposed to be looking after you," he says and tidies the remaining alcohol away. He reaches for a bottle of beer and after a moment, draws a second out. He's promised to look after Sherlock but he doesn't think he can get through the night without dulling his senses at least a little. He only notices he's been left alone when Sherlock flounces back in again, dressing gown and pajamas donned no doubt in preparation for the evening's entertainment. "Okay," says John and hands over a bottle. "Cheers."

Sherlock takes the glass and looks suspiciously at John's own. "You're not planning to get drunk?"

"Nope," says John and sips at the cold beer, watching Sherlock as he takes a big gulp. "Slow down there."

Sherlock wrinkles his nose. "You drank this on purpose?"

John grins. "It's just beer, Sherlock. It's a bloke thing."

"I'm a bloke."

"You're Sherlock," says John and picks up a few bottles to take through to the front room. "Come on then, let's get comfy."

"Did you get comfortable in the pub?" asks Sherlock as he follows John through, still drinking. "What did you do, John?"

"Played darts," says John. "Joined in a quiz. Talked. That sort of thing."

Sherlock nods and drains the bottle, gesturing for a second. "We could get a dart board."

"I think we'll skip it," says John, handing another bottle over. "I don't fancy pulling darts out of either of us."

Sherlock pouts at him. "Well, what about a quiz?"

"I think The Chase is on," says John and flips on the telly. Sherlock huffs but walks over and sits next to John on the sofa, optimum position for where they've currently got the television positioned. He scrunches his toes against the edge of the sofa, his knees up and the bottle rested on top of them. He watches the quiz show, drinking steadily as they work through the answers. John manages to get quite a few of them right. Sherlock manages some of the obscure ones and stares in disbelief as John picks out celebrity couples Sherlock has clearly never heard of.

"Why do you even know that?" asks Sherlock and John shrugs.

"It's usually between murders in the paper," he says and looks down at the bottles piling up on the table. He's still gripping his first, but Sherlock has downed three and is currently rolling the neck of the fourth against his bottom lip. John swallows at the sight, not sure he's ever seen him do that before and absolutely certain he shouldn't be finding it this erotic. But there it is; Sherlock Holmes is at least hitting tipsy and John apparently has an oral fixation. "You going to slow down?" he asks and Sherlock looks at him a little slower than before.

"That's not the plan, John," he says and narrows his eyes. "Are you worried you won't be able to handle me?"

"Don't need booze to do that," says John and sets his own bottle on the table. "Okay, you stay here and I'll get supplies in."

He heads to the kitchen to pick up more bottles and the big bag of Doritos from the side. He's surprised they're here, given that Sherlock picked apart their dubious ingredients when John picked them up last time. He supposes that Sherlock's written them off as pub food and smiles absently at the detective's attempts to replicate John's experience. He still isn't entirely clear on why Sherlock wants this, or why it is that he's agreed, but a single kiss keeps making John agree to all sorts of things. One kiss, and not a particularly good kiss at that, just a harsh touch of lips to lips and yet John can't quite shake it.

He's still smiling when he walks back to the sofa and when he sits down, Sherlock topples slightly, shoulder bumping John's own before he tries to right himself. "Steady on there," says John. "Thought you could hold your drink."

"I don't get drunk," says Sherlock as he leans against John's shoulder. "It's boring."

"Ah," says John. "So you're trying it now because?"

"Because you weren't John when you were drunk," says Sherlock. "You were...well, you weren't this John."

"I was still me," says John and looks round for his bottle. "Where the hell's that?"

"No, you weren't," says Sherlock and lifts the bottle. "You were a long time. I finished it off."

"I was two minutes," says John and turns his head to look down at Sherlock. "You knew I was getting another one. You didn't need to nick mine." He huffs out a breath. "Anyway, even pissed, I'm still me."

"Is that so?" says Sherlock and nods his head, before leaning closely against John's shoulder. He pats his hand down hard on John's thigh and the good doctor looks down at the elegant fingers as Sherlock tips up another bottle.

"Er, Sherlock, your hand is on my leg."

"Well done, John. It is definitely my hand. Your powers of deduction are improving infinitely."

"Yeah, thanks, you git," says John. "What's your hand doing on my leg?"

Sherlock flexes his fingers, drumming each against the fabric of John's jeans. "Touching," he says and lets out a chuckle that makes John grin. "You have very strong thighs, John. I've long admired them."

"What?" asks John and giggles. "When have you admired my legs? Is this like the penis thing?"

John's only had half of one, but Sherlock's relaxation appears to be making him a little tipsy anyway. Last night he drank freely and ended up in Sherlock's bed. Today Sherlock's drinking as much as he can, as fast as he can and is currently leaning against John. Business as usual. Of course, they don't usually have conversations about John's strong thighs, or for that matter his penis, but something seems to have changed slightly from the night before and he hasn't quite gathered his strength up to handle it.

Sherlock struggles slightly, his natural grace still apparent but somewhat subdued with the alcohol in his system. He sits back against the sofa, long legs stretched out and his free hand still against John's thigh. "I don't spy on you," he says. "I observe."

"Oh, spare me the lecture," says John. "When do you observe?"

"When you're in the shower," says Sherlock and as John stares, he shrugs. "You don't always lock the door."

"Lock the...I shouldn't have to! It's private, Sherlock. And what could you possibly need me for when I'm in the shower?"

John isn't quite yelling, but it's close and he takes a quick breath as he runs back over the previous sentence. "Ah," he says. "Little bit not good, that."

"Is it?" asks Sherlock. "Not good?"

"Well," says John and takes a drink, now five behind Sherlock but no sharper for all that. "It depends what you're doing it for?"

Sherlock grins at him. "So you don't mind?"

"What, you watching me taking a shower?" asks John. He shifts slightly on the sofa, his belly tingling slightly with a sensation he's fairly certain is unrelated to the booze. He feels a little hot and he can't quite stop tensing his buttocks against the sofa in some vain attempt to get some control of his lower body. It's not working the way he thinks it should, not when he can't shake the pretty picture of Sherlock watching John. His cock isn't sitting politely in his pants either, uncoiling as he works through the conversation and John shifts gives in and reaches to adjust himself.

The back of his hand brushes against Sherlock's own and he turns to look at the man. Sober, Sherlock is a moving statue, marble in motion, spattered by the deliciousness of the clothes he wears. He's put together, a force of nature coursing through London with every villain at his heels. He is someone ordinary people are afraid of and he's very much John's best friend. That, of course, is sober and tonight Sherlock has taken special care to ensure that he's none of those things. John thinks the lazy grin stretched across his lips is unfair and he clears his throat.

"Sherlock, you're drunk."

"Tipsy," says Sherlock and squeezes John's thigh as he sits forward with some effort. He's very much within John's personal space, as he's been so many times. However in none of those previous space invading moments has Sherlock been looking at John so closely. Sherlock licks over his bottom lip and then leans in against John's ear. "You were wrong."

"I was?" asks John. "Well, I'm sure you're dying to tell me why. Go on."

"Because you said you kissed me because you were drunk."

"I did kiss you because I was drunk."

"No, that's why you kissed me _then_ ," says Sherlock. "It's not why you kissed me."

John turns his head, his nose bumping against Sherlock's cheek. "Why did I kiss you?" he says quickly. "If you know everything."

"I don't know everything," says Sherlock. He grins slowly and lifts his hand, almost knocking himself out with the beer bottle. He takes another drink and drops the bottle against the sofa. "I know you wanted to kiss me."

"Yes," says John and lets out a breath he isn't entirely sure he was holding. His shoulders drop slightly and the heat in his belly rumbles again. His hips shift on the sofa and he can feel the hardening length of his cock throb where it's trapped in his pants. All this because Sherlock says John Watson wanted to kiss Sherlock Holmes and John's just wobbly enough to admit that it's true. He's not drunk, not even close and perhaps it's that Sherlock actually is, just a bit, that John finds he can admit this one little thing.

He clears his throat as Sherlock leans against him more heavily and lifts his hand to touch those curls. Just a light touch that should be enough to remind John that he's sitting on the sofa with his best mate. "I wanted to kiss you," he says, eyes still down and Sherlock's cheek against his own. "Sometimes when you're quiet, I want to kiss you a bit. And sometimes when you're loud and obnoxious I want to kiss you a lot."

He draws his fingers through the tangled curls at the back of Sherlock's head. "Look, Sherlock," he begins and stops sharply at the snore against his shoulder. He moves back sharply and Sherlock slumps forward, the little alcohol in his system having done its work rather better than it should. He remembers that Sherlock didn't sleep the night before, apparently looking after John and he could laugh when the man snuggles closer, apparently out for the count.

"Oh that's just fucking brilliant," he sighs and then leans back in the corner of the sofa, letting Sherlock stretch out some and settle in under John's arm. It's quite companionable and comfortable and if John hadn't been about to say something, he'd have been able to write this off as intimate companionship. Which it is, but now John's also leaning back with Sherlock's head on his chest and his arm now wrapped comfortably round John's belly. None of which distracts John from the certain knowledge that his erection is apparently tuned into Sherlock's closeness and there's nothing he can do about that.

"You arse," he murmurs against Sherlock's hair. "First time you shut up long enough for me to think about this and you're not properly awake to hear it."

"John," murmurs Sherlock and yawns against his skin. "Do shut up, I'm sleeping here."

"You _are_ awake."

"Asleep," says Sherlock and turns in closer. "Talk in the morning."

"I'll put you to bed," says John but Sherlock shakes his head and snuggles in closer.

"Stay here," he says and John blinks as he realises that the man's kissed his chest. Just a brush of lips against the cotton of his shirt and then Sherlock's apparently asleep again. He looks down at the top of Sherlock's head and sighs. He did tell him that drunk kisses don't count. He had hoped it would have been an improvement on last night but his luck's just not in. There's not a chance of him leaving either, not when Sherlock has asked and John lets his head rest back against the sofa, hoping that this doesn't leave him with a bad back in the morning.

So he is entirely surprised when Sherlock leans up and presses his lips to John's mouth. Just briefly and with absolutely no skill whatsoever, but it is a kiss after all and before he can open his eyes to look, Sherlock's slipped back down to snuggle in against his chest. John grins as he runs a tongue over his lip to taste the kiss he's been offered.

"It doesn't count," murmurs Sherlock and John sighs and strokes his hair.

"Liar," he says and yawns as he leans back. "You didn't even have drunk sex."

"You're right," says Sherlock and leans back, surprisingly sharp despite the alcohol. "John, we're going to need more beer."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the comments and kudos. You've been so very kind and I really do appreciate it. I hope this meets up with your expectations!
> 
> PS. the Absinthe problem was mine - such a pretty butterfly!


	4. In which questions are asked and answered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's still tipsy and John agrees to take care of him. But Sherlock is curious and they retire to the bedroom.
> 
> Honestly, John - why hold back?
> 
> ~

John stares back at the semi-drunk man leaning on the sofa next to him. Sherlock was almost asleep a few moments ago, he was sure of it. Almost hopeful of it, given that John had delivered something of a confession, spurred on by Sherlock's drunken cuddliness and their affectionate snuggling. He was settled in for the night, sure that they'd spend it curled up on the sofa and that John would wake alone, Sherlock having left for the next great exploration some time in the early morning.

However, it's still not midnight and John's casual reference to drunk sex has awakened the beast. Sherlock's demand for more beer is more than enough to make John's throat go dry, especially if he's following the request properly. He shifts on the sofa to get ready to move, fight or flight reflex kicked in a little late and John clears his throat.

"More beer? Sherlock, are you suggesting that we-"

"Yes."

"-have drunk sex? Ah," says John and Sherlock nods again. "You see, that's...no. No, I'm not doing that."

"But you said it doesn't count," says Sherlock and scrubs a hand up through his hair, drawing curls out to riotous proportions. "This morning you told me that things you do when you're drunk don't count in the morning."

"Yeah, but I meant when they just happen, not if you're planning for them and," John says in what he thinks is a reasonable tone, "it's usually with a stranger."

Sherlock stares at him, his brain clearly processing but perhaps a tiny bit slower than usual. "So our familiarity precludes any form of more physical intimacy?"

"We're not shagging," says John and as Sherlock seems to slump, he makes a firm decision and gets to his feet. "This was a really bad idea."

"You were fine with it until I mentioned sex," says Sherlock, unmoving.

"Yeah, strange, that," says John and reaches for Sherlock's elbow, as the least erotic place he can get hold of the man. "Look, we'll get you to bed and tomorrow we'll do something else. Hell, I'll even play Cluedo again if something else doesn't come up."

Sherlock gets to his feet unsteadily and leans against John. The alcohol has done at least part of its job; Sherlock is more than a little tipsy and affectionate. He's also sulking and the arm wrapped around John's back clings tightly. "It's an aborted experiment," he says and huffs as they get the bedroom door. He catches the frame and stops John walking in. "Bring the beer. I won't try to have sex with you."

"You need to sleep."

"I can't sleep," says Sherlock. "I have questions."

"You'll go to your grave asking questions," says John and sighs before he nods at Sherlock. "Okay, you get in bed, I'll get some beer and you can ask me what you like."

Sherlock smiles, John exits and heads for the kitchen. It's only as he picks up the rest of the case that he runs over his own promise to let Sherlock ask questions that it occurs to John that answers will be required. Usually Sherlock's the one standing there blasting out answers to questions no-one has asked. Often it's because people don't want them to be asked but usually John's fascinated. He likes seeing Sherlock pull the answers from the air and better still, explain how they're not from the air but entirely obvious if you know everything. John doesn't and Sherlock mostly does, but on the subject of sex and alcohol, it seems that John's experience and observations have authority.

He pads back to the bedroom, half expecting Sherlock to be asleep, but the man is sitting on top of his covers, dressing gown abandoned and the sheets rumpled around him. He looks up as John walks in and offers a warm smile as he holds a hand out for a bottle. "We'll just talk," he says and John raises an eyebrow as he walks over.

"I bet the Inquisition said the same," says John and settles down on the edge of the bed. Sherlock moves to tug him over and he shakes his head. "I'm fine here."

"I'm not," says Sherlock and tips his bottle against John's. "Please."

John hesitates, associating 'please' with a request for something Sherlock shouldn't want. It's late and he's a little warm and he can't entirely see the harm on getting on the bed with Sherlock. It isn't like he's a maiden in desperate protection of her honour. It's just the two of them having a drink. Admittedly it's also after a couple of hurried and sloppily executed kisses and John dealing with the ebb and flow of blood to his cock, but it's just bed. It's just them, Sherlock and John, however he wants to look at it.

Sherlock grins as John climbs on properly and settles himself against the headboard. Sherlock takes a drink, swallowing hard before he points at his flatmate.

"You've been hiding things."

"Probably," says John. "Can't be bothered most of the time. You only go routing around places you shouldn't."

"Not physical things," says Sherlock. "Things about you."

John stares at him and shakes his head. "I've not come in here so you can dissect me, bit by bit. So if this is a new theory on about me, drop it."

Sherlock nods slowly and shifts on the bed. One foot is stretched out to the side and his elbow rests on his bent knee. The other foot is disturbingly close to John's own, just a wiggle of either of their bare toes would mean touching and John keeps deliberately still. When Sherlock speaks, John has to concentrate and he wonders whether he ever sobered up completely or if drinking again after last night is stockpiling the booze  still in his system.

"I do have a theory," says Sherlock. "I have several about you, but I would prefer to ask."

"You don't usually."

"Tonight is not usual," says Sherlock and tips his bottle toward John again. "And I would like you to tell me whether I'm correct."

John licks over his bottom lip and nods. "Fine. Ask. But if I don't want to, you don't get to nag."

Sherlock takes another drink and smiles over the edge of the bottle. "You've had sex several times when you've been drunk."

"That's not a question."

"And whether you've found it pleasurable or not, you haven't wanted to stay in the morning."

"That's not just me. One night stands are," John shrugs. "Well, they're one night. You don't see the person afterward."

"Fine," says Sherlock and leans forward. His toes do brush John's and John does his best to ignore the flash of heat transferred from foot to groin. The link should be impossible, but it's there and John wants very much to put his hand down over his cock and relieve some of this pressure. He clenches his hand round the bottle.

"So what's the question?"

Sherlock grins. "The question is how many of the people you've slept with when you were drunk were men?"

John takes a moment to consider whether he's going to answer it at all. He drinks deep from the bottle and shakes his head at Sherlock. "Does it matter?"

"Not to me," says Sherlock. "But it is interesting that while you've had sex with men and women, you've only had sex with men when you're drunk. It would suggest-"

"Stop right there," says John and puts a hand over Sherlock's mouth. It is a mistake, mostly because the man is still talking, muffled by John's fingers. The talking matters less than the sensation of hot breath on John's skin and the touch of tongue to flesh. John registers it quite clearly and snatches his hand back, his fingers curled in toward the palm. "So what? I've had sex with blokes before."

"Only when you're drunk," says Sherlock. "Why not sober?"

John grins and takes another drink. "No," he says. "No, it's my turn."

"Your turn to what?"

"To ask a question."

Sherlock looks slightly upset. "You didn't say _you_ had questions."

"Yeah, but if we're having these mad heart to hearts, I'm getting something out of it as well," says John. "You ask one, I answer and then I get to ask one and you answer. Okay?"

Sherlock sighs and leans back on his elbow, still sprawled across the bed as John watches him. "Fine. Do ask. I'm sure it will be thrilling."

John grins and waits for Sherlock to drink. "Have you had a one night stand?"

Sherlock doesn't spit his beer out. He swallows and looks back over at John. "No."

"Have you ever had drunk sex?"

"No."

"Really?" asks John and Sherlock shakes his head.

"No, you don't get to ask another question. It's my turn," says Sherlock.

John sighs and reaches for a pillow to get more comfortable. "Go on then. But, if it's about whether I'm attracted to blokes, don't bother. Sometimes I am, that's all."

Sherlock frowns at him. "I wasn't going to ask that. It's obvious you are." He pushes at John's foot with his own. "Is the alcohol because you're ashamed you're sleeping with a man?"

"No."

"No? Then why is it only when you're drunk?"

"Two questions, Sherlock. Not allowed." John tips the bottle again and considers. "Have you ever had sex?"

"That's not what you asked before."

"You said the question wasn't allowed," says John and grins at his flatmate. "It's fine, you know. I just wondered."

"Whether I'm a virgin," murmurs Sherlock and straightens up some. "Would it bother you if I was?"

"You haven't answered my question."

"I will if you answer mine first."

John glances down at where their feet are touching. Just toes, he thinks absently and the heat in his body feels as though it has weight. He feels sticky and aroused and comfortable all at the same time. He licks his lip, tasting the beer there and keeps Sherlock's gaze. "Nah, it's all fine," he says. "Had a mate in the army who didn't."

Sherlock nods and leans over to set the now empty bottle down off the bed. "It's a valid choice."

"Is that a yes?" asks John and when Sherlock nods, he clears his throat. "Ever get close?"

Sherlock frowns at him and leans forward. "I think it's my turn."

"Nope, you asked if I minded and I don't, so it's mine again," says John and reaches out to push curls back from Sherlock's face where they're crowding his cheek bones. "Did you ever get close?"

"Once or twice," says Sherlock. "There was...fumbling. And unpleasantness." He leans in against John's hand. "Mostly I couldn't bear to imagine sharing my body with an idiot."

"And mostly everyone is," grins John and rubs his thumb against Sherlock's skin. "So you've been kissed then?"

"It's definitely my turn," says Sherlock and watches John closely. "If you didn't need the drink to hide your embarrassment then why have you only slept with men when you're drunk?"

John licks his lip. "Lower inhibitions," he says and shrugs at Sherlock. "Plus, if I'm a bit crap I can blame it on the drink."

"I see," says Sherlock and leans closer still, John meeting him half way. Their heads are not touching. Their feet are and John's hand is still caressing Sherlock's cheek. "So your fear that you will be sexually inadequate is tempered by alcohol?"

"Hey, I'm good in bed," says John and draws his thumb down to the edge of Sherlock's mouth. "Never had to use the excuse."

"Fascinating," murmurs Sherlock. "Your turn."

John blinks and stirs himself back into the moment. He drops his own empty bottle to the floor. "Same question," he says. "You've been kissed?"

"Some time ago, yes," says Sherlock. "A bit."

"When's some time ago?"

Sherlock raises his voice to protest about turns and John's thumb tugs at his bottom lip. John catches his breath as the tip of Sherlock's tongue licks there and he rubs the wet thumb over the plump flesh on offer. Plump where the rest of Sherlock is drawn tight and John relishes the contrast. "When?"

"At school," says Sherlock. "And you kissed me last night."

"That's how long it's been?" asks John. "School and then now?"

"Last night," says Sherlock. "And I kissed you today."

"So you did," says John and then, without more thought than that he wants to, he leans forward further and runs the very tip of his tongue over the path his thumb has marked. Just a quick taste of flesh and beer and John grins as he leans in closer still. He settles his free hand down on the bed next to Sherlock's thigh and sucks slowly at the man's bottom lip. It feels full and warm and built for being paid attention to. Perhaps, he considers, this is why John can't ever stop looking at him. Perhaps the reason why John says 'amazing' or 'brilliant' so often is because the clever words spill from this incredible mouth.

He draws back and registers the look on Sherlock's face. "Kissing takes practice," he says. "Sex takes practice."

"Anyone can do both."

"Yeah, but it takes practice to do it well," says John and, because he really doesn't think he can help himself, he leans in and presses his lips to Sherlock's own. He dips his tongue in against Sherlock's own and sucks slowly, gently, wanting to savour having the upper hand, even if it's just a kiss. He growls when he feels Sherlock start to kiss him back and slows the pace further, and if John feels he's teaching, just a little, then it's a small victory that he wants to keep ahold of when Sherlock sobers up and puts John back in his place again.

He breaks the kiss and looks Sherlock over, unsure what step to take next or even if there should be one.

"Well that's different," he says eventually. "You're good."

"I'm extraordinary," says Sherlock. "The kissing, John."

"Yes."

"It was very good," says Sherlock and lifts his hand to touch John's face, matching the placement of John's fingers on his own. "It wasn't like that before. Perhaps I shouldn't have discounted it so quickly."

"Glad to help," says John and turns his face to press a kiss against Sherlock's palm. "Just how drunk are you?"

"Sufficiently so," says Sherlock and leans in close to kiss John. He sucks at John's lower lip and licks at his tongue and John is slightly disconcerted and aroused at the same time that the man can use his technique so quickly or _so_ well. He's a little dizzy from it and opens his mouth to say something as Sherlock pounces. He's pushed back against the headboard and kissed hard as Sherlock's hands rove over his skin and John has scarcely any time to wonder whether a self enforced abstention has raised the limits and it's all a bit much. John grabs Sherlock by the upper arm and pushes him back.

"What are you doing?"

"Kissing you," says Sherlock and attempts to lean in again. "We've both been drinking and there won't be any awkward conversations in the morning."

"It's you! There are always awkward conversations in the morning!"

Sherlock licks his lip and John wonders if he's tasting the kiss or assessing it for further consideration. "John, you kissed me and it was quite wonderful. We've already established that you only sleep with men when your inhibitions are lowered. This is ideal."

"What?" John begins, but Sherlock's close again and he lets out a strangled groan as the man's hand brushes against John's stiffening erection. Sherlock's fingers outline the length before closing round and John swears blind the sensation seems to start behind his balls, urging his hips up against Sherlock's hand. All he'd have to do is surrender, give in and just revel in Sherlock's attentions, but he can taste alcohol on Sherlock's breath and the frightening thought that this is just the booze kicks his morals hard.

He pushes hard enough to knock Sherlock back on the bed and scrambles to get off the bed.

"I'm not fucking you just because I've had a drink!"

Sherlock stares up at him. "We've both had a drink. John, it's fine."

"It's not fucking fine," snaps John and scrubs a hand back over his hair as he gets his head back on track. "If we sleep together, _if_ we do that, then we'll both be sober and you'll be certain."

"Honestly, John, I'm not some fainting heroine. I know precisely what I'm doing."

"No," says John and steps back, bumping into the edge of the door and scrambling for safety. "No, even Sherlock bloody Holmes gets pissed and I am _not_ going to be the reason you feel bad in the morning."

"You're not listening, John. I _want_ this," says Sherlock. "It's why I drank your stupid beer in the first place."

"You had to get drunk to sleep with me?" asks John and shakes his head hard. "No. Not happening. You said you wouldn't try."

"Circumstances changed," huffs Sherlock. "You did kiss me, John."

"I did," says John and nods slowly. "And I promised to look after you. So," he begins and walks over, moving the beer bottles quickly and reaching for the sheets to cover Sherlock up. "Friends don't let friends make mistakes."

Sherlock stares at the sheets and shakes his head up at John. "You're going to put me to bed?"

"Yes."

"You're standing there with an impressive erection and you're putting me to bed?"

John sighs and shifts a little uncomfortably as his cock reminds him that he'd be just fine with this if he'd just give in. As it is, John's not even going to be able to indulge in the bathroom without risking Sherlock getting up out of bed to follow him. He frowns at Sherlock and pushes him back in bed.

"Yes," he says. "I'm a bloody saint. Now sleep it off."

Sherlock slumps back, rolling onto his side and offering John the sulky sight of his back. "You're an idiot."

"That too," says John. "I'm the idiot you tried to shag, so I'm going to try and not take it personally."

"I didn't call you one when I was trying to shag you," murmurs Sherlock, apparently drowsing. "I'm calling you one for saying no."

John hesitates and then leans over, kissing the back of Sherlock's head. He rumples the curls with his fingers and stands back up, stretching slightly before he heads to the door.

"I'm not saying no," he says quietly. "I'm saying not now."

"Same thing."

John catches his breath in a shaky chuckle. "If you believe that, you're not the mad genius I _know_ you are. I'll be just next door if you need me."

He closes the door behind him and heads to the living room, ignoring Sherlock's sleepy protestations. He strips down quickly to pants and his t-shirt and grasps the throw from the back of the sofa. John settles down with cushions beneath his head and closes his eyes. Despite the length of the day and the confusing and somewhat deliciousness of the evening, he can't quite sleep with the heavy length that throbs against his belly.

John groans some and then, quite sure that he can rest as soon as he deals with it, slides his hand under his pants and takes hold. His fingers wrap round the heavy length and he draws the slippery foreskin up and over the silky head, fingers moving quicker as he pictures what could have happened this evening. How much he wants to feel that clever mouth wrapped round him, silenced with the weight of John's cock and only Sherlock's eyes to tell him the truth. John's head drops back against the sofa as he spills against his belly. He swipes at it with his discarded t-shirt and drops it to the floor.

That taken care of, John sleeps and though the sofa is a bit springy in places, he doesn't stir in the night. Not even when the madman he lives with crawls up next to him in the late hours of the morning.

"I always need you," Sherlock says and taps a hand hard against John's chest. "Wake up, John. I'm not drunk now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the encouragement. You've been very kind and really, I love to hear from you! I hope you're still with me on this and enjoy reading.


	5. Intrepid Explorers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the morning after, they're both sober and Sherlock has John by the hand. Literally.
> 
> Snogging, smut and naked pretty men. It is Sunday after all!
> 
> ~

As far back as John can remember, when he started his new life, it has always been like this; Sherlock leads and John follows. It isn't about John's desire to be a follower, but as an explorer, an adventurer with a guide to new and dangerous places. Sherlock is always the one with the flag, but John ensures that it is firmly rooted into the ground. Sherlock might be the one up front, but he needs someone behind him to give value to what he does. John is the other hand applauding, (because Sherlock is always thrilled with his own performance) and they have found comfort in filling up each other's empty spaces.

This morning, John's hand is firmly grasped in Sherlock's as they walk back to Sherlock's bedroom. He follows, padding along the floor with his free hand raised to brush away the sleep from his eyes and no reason to trust anything but that Sherlock is sure about _everything_ again. Sherlock pauses at the bathroom door and then opens it, hand resting on the glass as he ushers John inside. He points out a second toothbrush and soap and closes the door behind him, leaving John to wonder whether Sherlock has had everything planned from day one.

He cleans up, face scrubbed until it's pink and a quick exploration of his senses confirms that whatever else they have drunk, John is perfectly sober today. His eyes look brighter than they've done for a week or so and his skin seems to have shrugged off the tenderness that was so apparent when on the Friday. He settles both hands against the basin and takes a good look at himself, aware that behind him is Sherlock's bedroom and that the man is both sober and wants answers, all of which are physical and very much about a change in their life partner agreement.

John doesn't quite remember when it become clear to him that whatever else they were, they were in it for life, but he does recall the pleasure the revelation gave him. Sherlock is maddening, frustrating and often the source of everything that makes John want to scream, but John has long accepted that glorious highs can only be accompanied by deep lows and he only hopes that when they come, they won't break him. Walking back into that bedroom where Sherlock is waiting has to be one of the high notes. It has to be, or John just isn't playing this game at all. He'll follow the man to Hell, if that's what it takes, but he's hoping that today will just involve their little flat and excitement at the other end of the scale.

"John, are you taking a bath in there?"

He takes a final glance at his reflection, catching sight of his own grin. It's not unfamiliar, but it is the one he feels may just be for Sherlock. It's special, and that's just fine right now, because John is about to set off on a new adventure and, damn the man, it's just as dangerous as it should be.

He heads back into the bedroom and finds that Sherlock's sitting on the bed, fingers laced over his chest and his eyes closed. He's thinking and that usually involves a lot of quiet, but his eyes flash open as John enters the room and he offers a quick smile. "Not drunk then?"

"No," says John and leans against the door frame. "You?"

"Completely fine, though I doubt I should drive today."

"You don't drive anyway."

"Well, I shouldn't go out," says Sherlock and John's grin widens.

"Even if there's a nine?"

"There's never a nine," says Sherlock and pats the edge of the bed. "And if there is, it'll have to wait."

"Really?" asks John and steps toward the bed. "You sure you're not still pissed?"

"This is a ten," says Sherlock and reaches out to draw John to the mattress. John crawls on and leans in closer, arms stretched to embrace and he finds that being this close so early in the morning is exactly right for a Sunday. He nuzzles in against Sherlock's neck and licks at the tender skin beneath his ear. Sherlock smells like soap and tastes ever so slightly salty and John smiles against his skin.

"So no pressure, then," says John and feels Sherlock's hands slide over his back. It's a virtual massage at this angle and John's quite happy to be petted while he tests out the texture of Sherlock's throat. It's a long expanse of sensations, from the sharp edges of his jaw down to the softness of the hollow and John's tongue tastes all of it. He comes close to giggling at the rasp of stubble he catches beneath his tongue and draws back to look at Sherlock's face again. "I take it sex is on?"

Sherlock sighs rather dramatically and draws a hand up to settle on John's shoulder. "It's been on since last night, only _you_ wouldn't."

"You'd had a few beers."

"So had you," says Sherlock. "If I'd taken advantage of you, you wouldn't have been bothered."

"Yeah," says John and leans in quickly to press his mouth to Sherlock's. He grins as he feels the way Sherlock kisses back, sucking at his lip and using his tongue to explore rather than invade. The man's an incredibly quick learner and always has been, but this is about sensation and heat and John loses track as Sherlock's hand slides to his hair. He draws back slowly, savouring the desire and the growl Sherlock gives at the loss. "But it's not often you get the chance to make a first impression."

"I already know everything about you."

"Not everything," says John and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"I know that you're a very generous lover, that although you've had one night stands, your short term girlfriends sleep with you at least twice before they leave which suggests it's an experience they'd like to repeat. Given your injured shoulder, you prefer to be kneeling when giving oral sex and that when you're with a man you prefer to be the one giving, rather than-"

"Yes, all right," huffs John and presses his fingers against Sherlock's lips. "It's hard to be mysterious when you go off like that."

"I'm right though," says Sherlock and John rolls his eyes. "And you still do surprise me, John. Turning me down last night was a surprise, though I can only imagine I was more affected by the alcohol than I expected. Your moral code isn't often bent."

John can feel his fingers tingling where they're still touching Sherlock's lips. "So if you know everything, how come this is a ten?"

"Experience is everything," says Sherlock and catches John's hand. He leans forward and kisses John hard, lips bruising as he leans forward and pushes John back against the bed.

John relishes the eagerness, sliding his hand up and over Sherlock's curls, his body registering just how it feels to be pressed beneath the man. The long limbs he's used to chasing over London are currently pinning him to the bed and Sherlock appears to be all hands right now. His fingers slide over John's sides and push at his pants and that's quite enough to make John catch his breath and grab both his flatmate's wrists.

"What?" pants Sherlock. "Why are you stopping me?"

"I'm not," says John. "We don't have to get right down to it. It's not all about my dick."

"I'm well aware of that," says Sherlock.

"Good."

"There's your arse as well. You really do have a gorgeous arse, John."

"Ah," says John and refuses to fight the blush that's colouring his cheeks. "Glad you like it, but can you please not make me feel like all I am is groin to you."

Sherlock blinks and then lifts his hands away, settling one on the bed by John's shoulder and the other against his bicep. He bends down and kisses the muscle, his teeth nipping at the skin. "Oh, your arms, John. Your arms really are divine."

"Yes, thank you, that's quite enough of that," says John and pulls free, wriggling out from beneath Sherlock and reaching for the man's t-shirt. "I don't know what I was thinking. Romance is lost on you."

"We're having sex," says Sherlock from behind the cotton as John tugs his shirt off. "Romance goes with dinner."

"Sex comes after the dinner."

"I could make you a bacon sandwich?"

"Sherlock," says John and wraps his arms round Sherlock's body. "Please shut up. I don't think I can do this if you keep saying things like that."

Sherlock nods and leans in, bare chest pressed up against John's own. He settles a hand on John's arm, thumb swiping against the bite marks he left earlier. He licks over John's lip and smiles into the kiss that's offered. "Would it help if I said I really want to do this with you?"

"Yes," says John and kisses Sherlock again, his mouth warm and the taste of toothpaste is long gone. John's had so many kisses in his life, but few were memorable. Anything with Sherlock stands out against the grey of the world and this is no exception. John closes his eyes, his fingers roaming over Sherlock's back and sides and he giggles when he hits a ticklish spot and makes the great detective move in a decidedly ungraceful way. "Right there?" he asks and Sherlock bats his hand away.

"This is not sex, John," says Sherlock and flinches again when John brushes his side. "You're teasing!"

"I'm very mean," says John and slides free of Sherlock and the bed. He tugs at Sherlock's pajama bottoms and only pauses when Sherlock catches hold. "I promise I won't be mean any more."

"I knew you preferred it on your knees," sighs Sherlock and lets John strip him bare. He spreads his thighs slightly as John kneels between, hand settled on his thigh and the other sliding up. John brushes the downy hair at Sherlock's inner thigh and works up, cupping the soft sac that's drawn up tight and rolling his thumb over the skin. "It's easier on your shoulder."

"Yes, yes, you're very clever," says John and leans forward, pressing his lips against Sherlock's belly and nudging the heat of the man's cock. "Very clever," he murmurs and licks at the rounded head, tasting the salty slick liquid that's gathered. Sherlock groans and John grins and licks again. "Nothing to say?"

"Your mouth," groans Sherlock. "John, it's incredible."

"I try," says John and wraps his hand round the base of Sherlock's cock, drawing his fingers up higher to slide foreskin over the shaft beneath. John's fingers squeeze and as he draws back down, he swallows him up whole, his lips sliding down to take in the warmth of the man. There's more liquid, a salty taste against his tongue and John laves over his skin, working fingers and lips against the heat of Sherlock's cock as he feels the man twitch and buck his hips without control. It's rare to see the man without the mask of control and John revels in it, never wavering from the steady and insistent movement that is apparently too much.

Sherlock's hand clutches at John's hair, long fingers searching desperately and it's always onward, always the pair of them pushing forward. John licks harder, sucking slowly at Sherlock's cock until he can feel the tension in Sherlock's belly suddenly drop. He hears the aching groan spill out and the slick liquid that fills his mouth is plentiful. John swallows, his tongue touching every last bit of him and he lets the softening length slip from his mouth as his hands squeeze and settle back on Sherlock's thighs again.

He lifts his head and grins as he takes in Sherlock's expression. John's always enjoyed a job well done, no matter the circumstance and this is no exception. For once, Sherlock looks to be loose limbed and a little stoned. It's an attractive pose and John can't resist leaning up and kissing the parted lips on offer. "You're gorgeous when you come," he says and Sherlock opens his eyes and kisses him back furiously.

"I didn't know that," says Sherlock and licks his lip, tasting the warmth of John's mouth and the memory of his own spend. "I didn't know it would feel like that. It's..." he breaks off and stares back at John as if he's suddenly discovered something entirely new. "It's nothing like when I do it."

"Well, I always say tea tastes better when someone's made it for you," says John and grins at the slightly awed expression on Sherlock's face. "But thank you for the compliment."

"Show me," says Sherlock and John raises his eyebrows. "I want to know how you do it."

"Basically avoid the teeth and you're set," says John and finds himself rather manhandled, Sherlock swapping their positions and his pants are snagged by clever fingers and drawn off. One leg snags round his ankles before they're tossed unceremoniously away and he gasps as Sherlock leans in and nuzzles between thigh and pelvis. There are kisses pressed against his skin and the sudden and still somehow shocking sensation of being grasped.

John drops a hand down, covering Sherlock's fingers with his own and the detective casts a quizzical glance upward. John grins at him and moves slowly, his hand steady over Sherlock's own and John's cock is heavy, turgid and responsive to the contact. "Show you, right," he confirms and can't quite stop panting as he watches Sherlock's expression. All of which is fine because Sherlock is watching him too. His eyes are on John's face as he kneels and his lips are parted. John can't quite stop staring at how hungry Sherlock looks.

He keeps stroking Sherlock's fingers until it's clear that the man has _that_ rhythm down pat. Though John hasn't often been in a position where he wanted to force anyone to do anything, he wraps his hand in Sherlock's curls instead and urges the man forward. Sherlock moves, eyes still very much on John's face and John groans loudly when those luscious lips are wrapped round the head of his cock.

"Oh fuck _me_ ," he manages and even now Sherlock twitches an inquisitive eyebrow. "It's good," he pants and tugs a little harder. "Dammit, it's _really_ good."

Sherlock runs his tongue round the rim of John's cock and John almost melts. His thighs fall open wider and he rests his free hand against the bed, fingers scrunching against the sheets. He tries to steady his breathing, but Sherlock is relentless, his mouth a hot tug of liquid desire and John knows he's going to come. The only remaining question is where and how much strength he'll have left in his legs afterward.

"Sherlock," he says and tugs at the man's hair. "I'm going to come."

Sherlock doesn't pull away, increasing that ungodly suction as he draws John's cock back and into his mouth. John can feel the way the man's tongue works over him, licking at every last bit of John's cock and when Sherlock pushes his foreskin back with it, he knows that he's gone. He cries out, his head dropped back and his hips lifted clear off the bed and John hits a climax that seems to have reduced his entire body to jelly.

John drops back against the bed, arms splayed and his body slick with sweat. His ears are ringing and it takes him almost a minute to be able to form any kind of conscious thought beyond believing that Sherlock Holmes is some kind of wizard. He catches his breath slowly, panting on the mattress as it dips next to him and announces Sherlock as his companion.

John reaches up and catches the man's jaw, drawing him in close for a kiss that's mostly hot breathing and lips pressed close. He grins at the taste of himself, salt on Sherlock's tongue and the scent of sex is heavy in the room now.

"First time, my arse," he chuckles as Sherlock kisses him back. "You've done that before."

"No," says Sherlock. "You're my test subject."

John giggles, the noise echoing in the room and he strokes over Sherlock's cheek. "Then you really are amazing," he says lightly. "Fuck me, Sherlock, I thought I was going to pass out. Mind blowing bit of head right there. You sure you haven't-"

"I've done my analysis," says Sherlock and John grins wider at him. "What?"

"You've been on my laptop looking at porn."

"Obviously," says Sherlock. "Research."

John laughs loudly before something occurs to him and he raises an eyebrow at Sherlock. "What kind of porn?"

"The naked kind," says Sherlock and licks his bottom lip. "Men, John. Women hold no interest for me." He strokes his hand down over John's chest and rubs against his nipple. "They don't compare."

"Hmm?"

"Other men," says Sherlock. "I mean it was informative as far as it goes, but I didn't want to see them naked." He draws his hand up and rubs against the scar on John's shoulder. "They're not as interesting."

John grins at him and drops his hands back against the sheets. "Feel free."

Sherlock licks his lips before he leans up and over John, eyes roaming over the doctor's body greedily. John smiles absently as he relishes being looked at. His feet drum absently against the floor and he can feel Sherlock's fingertips stroking lightly over his skin, down over his sternum and down over the softer skin of his belly. The skin trembles there and as Sherlock's hand nears his cock again, John catches his breath and wraps his hand round Sherlock's wrist.

"Give the old chap a break," he says and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"I want to know more," he insists and John draws him back up on the bed.

"I'll show you anything you like," he says and wraps an arm round his shoulder. "Just lie here with me and let me get my breath back."

Sherlock huffs, but he lays down on the bed next to John and stretches out. "They don't stop for a rest on videos," he says and kisses John's shoulder where he's snuggled in. "It's all go."

"Yes, well I don't have the benefit of an editor," says John. "And I'm not twenty, so a little rest'll be good for both of us."

He hears Sherlock sigh and closes his eyes, relishing the leisurely kisses that they share and John wonders at the heat and quiet in the room.

"How long?"

He blinks and looks back at Sherlock, the intelligence behind those eyes still working hard. "Twenty minutes?" he offers and draws Sherlock's hand back to his hip so that they can lie, side by side in the bed. John's cock, still measurably soft, rests comfortably against Sherlock's hip and he's a little surprised at the interest Sherlock's own is showing. " _You're_ always on the go, aren't you?"

"I can lie still with you," says Sherlock and draws his tongue up over John's neck and nuzzles his ear. "If you show me everything."

"I don't think I know everything."

"Everything you know, then. We'll work everything else out."

John closes his eyes. After all, he'll need his rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised I'd get to the smut and here it is. There's more to come because Sherlock really is inquisitive.
> 
> As always, thank you so so much for your very kind comments and kudos. They really do mean a lot and are so inspiring. Thank you!


	6. Sentiment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a sleep. Sherlock continues to explore. Much smut, many snogs and more than a little fluff.
> 
> Oh and some sex.
> 
> ~

John is woken by the long wet licks along his hipbone. It takes him several minutes to put everything into place, shifting on the bed as he tries to get more of that sensation. He smiles as he lolls back on the sheets and stretches out, one hand reaching for Sherlock. His fingertips brush over mussed curls and he giggles when Sherlock nips at his hip, teeth teasing until John can't take it and he leans up on the mattress.

"I feel like a cat," he says. "Are you grooming me?"

"I was tasting you," says Sherlock and lifts his head. "You taste different all over."

"All over?" asks John and strokes the back of Sherlock's neck as the man scrambles up. "Just where have you been licking?"

"Everywhere accessible," says Sherlock and settles a hand over John's belly. "You taste salty everywhere, but I think I like your hipbone most."

"It tastes the best?"

"No," says Sherlock and slides a hand over to the ridge of John's hip. "The texture is highly satisfying. You are perfect just here."

John grins and tugs until Sherlock kisses him. He's lazy in his affection and his kiss is slow, sucking at Sherlock's mouth until he can feel the urgency in his flatmate. He holds off as long as he can manage, forcing Sherlock to take slow licks and nibbles against his lip, but the frustrated growl is enough to make John give this up. He chuckles as Sherlock moves in closer and is enveloped in the man's embrace, held tight enough that he couldn't catch his breath even if it wasn't all being kissed away.

He draws back to take a look at Sherlock and touches the man's mouth, fingertips painting the pattern of Sherlock's kiss. John has spent what feels like a lifetime watching Sherlock talk, taking in everything the man says and often being amazed. He is fascinated with Sherlock's mouth and, given this new intimacy, he wonders if he can make the kind of demands that will give him more time this close to the man.

"John," says Sherlock. "I've never seen you look dizzy before."

"You've seen me drunk," he says and Sherlock shakes his head.

"Not the same," says Sherlock. "What were you thinking about?"

"You," says John easily and grins at Sherlock's pleased expression. "You think bits of me are perfect."

"Just your hipbone," says Sherlock. "Really, your ankles are shocking. I'm surprised you don't fall over more often given your lack of balance."

John stares at him. "Is this your attempt at seduction?"

"John, I have licked you from top to bottom. I feel we are beyond seduction."

"Well, I prefer it when my lovers don't actually insult me," says John. "It helps, I swear."

Sherlock brings his hand down to John's cock and squeezes slowly. "It doesn't seem to be hurting my chances."

John groans and catches hold of his hand and draws it away. "I'm more than just my dick, Sherlock."

"And I thoroughly appreciate that," says Sherlock. "But you were asleep for two hours, not twenty minutes and I would very much like to continue where we left off."

John stares at him before he chuckles. "I thought you were spontaneous."

"I thought you'd done this before."

"I _have_ done this before," says John and pushes Sherlock over onto his back. "I'm just saying, foreplay isn't just for girls."

"I'm well aware of that," says Sherlock. "I was tasting you, John. I've covered _everywhere_."

John laughs loudly at that and grabs Sherlock's hands, dragging them above his head and pinning him down. "You are very efficient," he says. "But I prefer to be awake when I'm being touched up."

"Licking, John," says Sherlock and wriggles slightly, testing his ability to move. "You said you liked my tongue."

"I love your tongue," says John honestly and leans down, his teeth nipping at Sherlock's neck. He grins at the yelp Sherlock gives and nuzzles in, stretching his tongue out to lave at his flatmate's shoulder. John kisses his way back up to Sherlock's mouth and winks at the indignant expression on the man's face. "There's not much of you I don't."

"Like what?" asks Sherlock.

"Hmm?"

"What don't you like?"

"Oh, I like all of you," says John and kisses his way down to Sherlock's nipple. He slicks the skin and uses his teeth to tease it into a hard peak. John breathes out over it and smiles when Sherlock lifts his hips. He can feel the shift and rub, erection pressed up against Sherlock's own and John groans, shifts his weight slightly so that he can feel that better. Sherlock's instantly obliging, moving quickly to try to find a place where everything slides into place and John arches his back as he feels the sleek rub of skin against skin.

"I like this," he murmurs, "I love this," and Sherlock breaks free of his grip so he can reach for the back of John's neck. He brings John down to kiss him furiously, hip rubbing and bumping and the sleek glide of cock alongside cock makes them both arch closer. John scrambles, hand moving between them to touch. His fingers grope desperately for the heavy length of Sherlock and wraps round. 

It's not easy at this angle and John's hand isn't quite big enough to get a firm grasp round them both. But John is persistent and he rolls his hips, easing along the soft path of his own palm and bringing Sherlock with him. His cock feels as though it's been up for hours, given how he aches and he can feel the tug and slide of foreskin and shaft, the smooth and swollen heads touching until he can barely breathe. He thinks he might come when he feels the liquid spill against his cock, just a precursor but enough to make John pant to keep any semblance of control.

He could come, but he doesn't want to, not when they have the opportunity to make this last and John draws his hand up and back, torturous as he moves over the two of them, sliding on the bed with feet pushing desperately at the covers. Sherlock tips his head back, unconsciously offering his neck and John sucks there, planting a mark that will no doubt be a purple smudge by morning. But the effect is fantastic; Sherlock moves harder, his hips matching John's and his cock sliding against John's own, captured in palm and eagerness. John can barely breathe and he can see the way this will end, heat and wetness and silk skin rubbed up together and John no doubt out for the count again.

John growls against Sherlock's throat and forces himself to pull back, his hand sliding free as he drops to his back. He hears Sherlock yell out in frustration next to him and feels the push as the man rolls and gathers close.

"John," he growls as he reaches for his hand. "You stopped. You shouldn't stop."

John clenches Sherlock's hand in his own and refuses to be drawn back to the heavy length currently pushed in against his side.

"You wanted to do more," he grins and raises Sherlock's hand to kiss the back. "We can do anything you want."

"I want this," says Sherlock. "I want to come with you."

"Yeah," grins John and rolls over onto his side. "Frustrated?"

"Yes," snaps Sherlock and narrows his eyes at John. "This isn't foreplay."

"Why not?" asks John and leans in closer, sucking at Sherlock's mouth until the man huffs and draws back. "Most of what we do is foreplay. Why not this?"

"Most of what we do is argue," says Sherlock. "And solve puzzles, though arguably that _is_ mostly me, but still, we work and you make ridiculous complaints about things which are necessary. That is different. This is, was, sex and you stopped." He rolls his hip against John's belly. "You want this, I know you do."

"I want you," says John and strokes a hand over Sherlock's cheek, just to touch. "I want all of you."

"Sounds greedy," says Sherlock and clears his throat. "Are you trying to ask me something, because I want to be quite clear, I will let you penetrate me. I want to have everything with you."

"What if I said," murmurs John as he kisses Sherlock's mouth. "That you are the biggest temptation I've had."

"I wouldn't believe you."

"Biggest pain in the ass?"

"That sounds a little more likely," says Sherlock and huffs. He rests his head on his hand as he watches John. "Why did you stop?"

"Because you really _are_ the biggest temptation I've had," says John with a grin. "I'm in bed with you and I'm so sober my blood is probably wondering where the alcohol has gone."

"I can get you a drink," says Sherlock and doesn't move.

John chuckles and slides his hand over Sherlock's side, drawing him closer still. "I don't think I've ever said thank you for changing my life."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "Honestly, John. I really wasn't looking for sentiment."

"Gratitude," says John. "You know what you've done."

"I know what we are," says Sherlock and John waits patiently. "Oh, for heaven's sake, John, don't make me say it."

"Sentiment?" asks John. "Just because you don't want to say it, doesn't mean it's untrue."

"You're essential," says Sherlock and kisses him soundly. "And you should stay here."

"No plans to move," says John cheerily. "Provided you remember that food goes in the fridge."

"I do remember," says Sherlock. "I think I remember everything necessary."

"Like food."

"Like food, yes. And like you," he says and when John smiles, Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Don't start. You know what I mean."

"I think you mean, 'yes, John, you are an entirely brilliant and amazing human being and I would be lost without you.'"

"It'd certainly be quieter."

"Oh _fine_ ," says John and moves to get up, laughing loudly as Sherlock wrestles him back down and kisses him again. John revels in being kissed, being wanted and he stretches out on the bed and lets Sherlock pounce on him. "Sherlock," he says amidst kisses and being slightly squashed by a predatory detective. "Sherlock, I need to know."

Sherlock sits up, legs astride John and a hand firmly on his chest. "You want to talk now?" he asks. "Every time we get close to anything that could lead to climax, _you_ want to talk!"

"I only wanted to ask a question," says John in a far too reasonable tone.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "What could you possibly need to know now?" he asks. "Is it where the milk has been moved to? Fine, it's down in Mrs Hudson's kitchen. Is it who killed Hopkins? His mother. Or is it," says Sherlock as he comes close to folding his arms and huffing, "what will I be doing if you persist in asking questions instead of having sex with me?"

"What will you do?" asks John and when Sherlock huffs he sits up in bed and wraps his arms round the man. "That isn't my question."

"You wouldn't like the answer," says Sherlock and his teeth brush against his bottom lip as he catches it briefly. "What are you going to ask?"

"Do you want to fuck me?" asks John and Sherlock stares at him. "I thought you had an answer for every question."

"I do," says Sherlock and nods a little frantically before the grin spreads over his face. "I do have an answer and yes, God, John, yes, I do want to."

"Good," says John. "Then you'll be wanting to get up and go get that bottle you think I haven't noticed on your dresser."

Sherlock is up and off, moving quickly as he locates the bottle and brings it back to the bed. John has shifted, sliding up the bed until his head is on the pillows. He looks every inch the retired soldier, a glowing remnant of hard work and loyalty, his body bearing memory of every battle he has charged into. He is warm and welcoming and he holds a hand out toward Sherlock as he settles a hand back behind his head.

Sherlock takes it and eases forward on the bed, watching John's face, his hands steady as he kneels above him. "I thought you preferred-"

"I want to do it this way," says John and kisses Sherlock's fingertips. "I want to do this right."

"It would be right either way," says Sherlock and John grins. "Look, John, I know you're being considerate and I do appreciate it, but I don't want you to be uncomfortable."

John chuckles and reaches for the bottle, opening it up and squeezing it out over Sherlock's fingers. "So make sure I'm not," he says and leans up for a kiss. "I trust you, idiot."

Sherlock nods and leans down, his lean frame covering John's own. He presses his mouth against John's ear and the whispered _thank you_ is barely audible to either of them. It is felt, though and John sighs as he feels Sherlock's hand on his skin, slick and slippery as it investigates his flesh. He moves his thigh easily, exposing every part of himself with pleasure at offering up some new sensation to the greatest explorer of them all.

He kisses Sherlock when the man offers his mouth, sucking slowly at the proffered tongue and sweet tasting lips. John arches his back, trying to help with the angle here and catches his breath when the tightly puckered entrance is located, rubbed and pushed at. "Go easy," he murmurs against Sherlock's mouth. "The trick is to work slowly."

"I never work slowly," complains Sherlock, but his hands move, fingers whisper light as he nudges and rubs, circling round the tender skin that will give way. John swears he can feel the man force his mind to concentrate on this and this alone. It's as though all Sherlock's prowess has slipped to his hand and John rolls his hips leisurely as he feels the push and sudden slip of a long digit past the entrance. He arches up again and feels it sink deeper, but Sherlock has stilled and John kisses him again.

"There we go," he says and feels Sherlock's forehead against his own. "Right there."

Sherlock barely nods, his fingers working cleverly to rub and draw back, to open where everything is usually snuck up closed. A second digit is worked forward and in and John pants slightly, offering up his body and the heat of his skin. He can feel the slick weight of Sherlock's erection against his belly and his own cock, a low thrum of want pulsing at his groin.

"John," murmurs Sherlock and wriggles a third finger against the entrance as he draws the others back. "This is right, isn't it?"

"You're doing a great job," says John and reaches down, his hand capturing Sherlock's wrist. He works slowly, easing them both forward and though he has to pant before he can gain some control again, he can feel the slide of fingers inside him, stretching out and searching for the smooth bump that they're both aware of and only John has experience of. "Not yet," he says and Sherlock groans.

"Can I?" is his only question and John kisses him again as he draws their hands back. "John?"

"Easy now," says John and reaches for the bottle. He tilts his head at Sherlock. "Condoms?"

"Well, obviously," says Sherlock and stares down at his fingers briefly before he finds the box from the side of the bed. John watches as he sheathes up, grinning at the ease with which he manages it. Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him. "It's not the first time I've done _this_ ," he says and drops the box to the floor as he leans forward. "I needed to know."

"You always need to know," says John and lifts his right leg, one foot braced a little awkwardly against Sherlock's shoulder. "Come on then," he says and draws Sherlock forward. "Slow, remember?"

"I hate slow," says Sherlock, but he's careful when he moves and John never has a second's doubt as the man leans over and, with slicked up fingers and cock, presses forward. He can feel the brush of cock against his balls and then the rub is lower, slicker and John remembers everything he can about easing the way. There are tricks to everything, if you look and he bears down hard as Sherlock pushes against the tight ringed entrance.

John pants as Sherlock eases forward and he presses his hands to the man's hip, John's toes scrunched up against his shoulder. With a deep breath, he slides his fingers round, pressing into the firm curve of Sherlock's ass and he pulls forward. There's no sound outside his own head, but it feels like one second he is John, entire and alone and then he is entered, connected and he groans loudly, surprised as Sherlock echoes it.

He looks up and Sherlock is struggling to breathe, but his eyes are entirely on John, focussed and determined as always. John grins at him with some effort and pushes back, his hips flexed almost uncomfortably as he gets used to being filled. "See," he manages, "it's worth going slow."

"John," begins Sherlock and then shakes his head. He moves John's foot from his shoulder and brings it down to his hip as he leans forward. He settles his face against John's cheek and kisses there, his voice quiet when he does speak. "You are an entirely brilliant and amazing human being and I would be lost without you."

John smiles and kisses the man's cheek. "Yeah, I feel the same way about you," he says and pulls at Sherlock's ass. "Let's have sex then."

Sherlock chuckles softly and moves. His hands slide against John's shoulders and he moves, slow but with increasing pace as John's touches urge him onward. They slide together on the mattress, hips moving harder until John suddenly gasps and Sherlock freezes.

"No, go on," pants John. "Good angle. Just...do it again."

Sherlock blinks but he moves forward, arching his back so that he can manage the same type of thrust and John revels in his flatmate's attention to detail. He shifts on the bed, clutching hard enough against Sherlock's bum to create ten perfect bruises. Each pump of Sherlock's hips brings them both closer to the brink and he gasps when Sherlock moves a hand to grasp the hard length of John's cock.

The _I'm close_ is evident from Sherlock's insistent pressure and John succumbs entirely. He cries out at the climax, feeling the slick liquid spilling over his belly in what feels like gallons. His hips draw up and he clenches everywhere. He can feel the harder thrusts as Sherlock pants and John closes his eyes, allowing himself to surrender until, moments later, he can feel the rumble in Sherlock's throat that seems to roll over both of them.

There's a sudden hard thrust that almost hurts and then Sherlock is pressed into him so deeply it feels as though they're both pinned to the mattress. John can feel the gasp against his neck and he lifts a hand to stroke the man's hair. There's so much silence in the room and John wonders how many moments they will have like this. He wonders if it was always going to end up here and whether it will ever happen again.

There's some low murmuring he can't decipher and Sherlock draws back, easing out of him and disposing of the mess. John lets him do it, lazily deciding that since he usually does the clearing up, this is only fair. He turns his head as Sherlock sits on the edge of the bed and reaches out to touch him.

"You okay?"

Sherlock nods and turns back to look at him. "Perhaps I'm a fainting virgin after all."

"Well, not fainting," says John and raises an eyebrow. "Not a virgin either."

"No," says Sherlock. "But, I do feel a little light headed."

John nods and holds his arm out. "Well, you should come to bed. Doctor's orders."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "John, we have definitely not been playing doctor. Please don't attempt to-"

John sits up and presses his lips to Sherlock's. "The world's still spinning," he says. "We didn't break anything."

Sherlock licks his lip. "I think perhaps I have undervalued sentiment."

"I don't think you ever undervalue anything," says John. "It's dangerous, after all."

Sherlock smiles. "And here you are."

"Right," says John and draws him back against the bed. "I think this is where I belong."

"Cleaning up after me?"

"By your side," he says and glances out at the sun peeking through the curtains. "It's lunch time. Come on, quick sleep and I'll make you something to eat. And you _will_ eat it."

Sherlock nods and closes his eyes, arms wrapped round John as he settles in bed. "It'll always be a ten, John."

"Uh oh, pressure," grins John. "Nothing like a perfectionist boyfriend!"

"Boyfriend?"

"I think so," says John. "Who else is going to look after me when I'm smashed?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's it, folks. I think our smashed couple are out for the count on this one. You have all been entirely kind and wonderful, offering me laughs and wonderful comments and I am so entirely flattered and happy that you've been with me to enjoy it.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this last chapter. Big hugs! x


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